


The Wisdom of Marrying a Horse Lord

by Bead



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Relationship, F/M, Married Characters, Married Sex, Nipple Play, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reading, Romance, Smart is Sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:29:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bead/pseuds/Bead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was wandering through Tumblr and was tripped up by a prompt.  </p><p>dirty-middle-earth-confessions:<br/>#227: “Éomer’s dark, intense eyes turn me on so badly. I just want to spend a night with him, preferably next to a fireplace. He’d lift me up, and I’d lock my legs around his strong frame. He’d lower me down on a huge fur, then his light, skillful touches would tickle my skin… He seems so frustrated, I just want to be the one thing that’s there to help ease all the pain brought on by war.”</p><p>Mmmm, Éomer.  Who married a princess of Dol Amroth, Lothíriel.  I didn't find that until after I finished writing this, so still kept it in second person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wisdom of Marrying a Horse Lord

“You should be abed, little one,” Éomer says softly. “Abed long ago. What keeps you from your sleep?” 

“A book, my lord,” you reply. “And you.” 

He smiles, his eyes flashing, and strides over to take the book from your hands and lean over you, hands braced on the chair arms, his hair tickling your cheek. You can't help but smile up at him, not bothered by the departure of your book at all. 

“Confess, my lady,” he murmurs, mouth an inch from yours. “It is the book that keeps you awake; I know you of old, stumbling to break your fast, heavy-eyed and all the words you could speak were of the tales you’d read the night before. These books are your midnight lovers.” 

“Books may be my midnight _companions_ , but that is only because it is…” you brush his hair aside to cast a glance at the candle markings. “Going on _two_ , and my husband has not yet come to me, and these books and the dogs are my only company. And the dogs are not skilled at conversation, though sweet and quite warm. I wish for no other lover than the one I have, so I wait, cradled in these paper arms, hoping for stronger ones to find me.” 

“I could find smarter dogs,” he offers with a small, promising kiss. 

“You could find smarter _council members_ or at least less wordy ones.” You can feel him wince. 

“We are still - “

“Shhh,” you say, brushing your fingers over his mouth. “Of course there is much to do, even now, when all the wounds are healed and loved ones buried, homes rebuilt, of course that is when the real work begins. I only wish I’d known you’d be so late, so I could have been by your side, given you a second set of eyes and ears. I thought - “

Éomer rolls his eyes. “I thought they’d stop talking, too. Hours ago. And now they’ve invaded my lady’s chamber.” 

“What. Oh. Help,” you say, a mockery of a maiden in distress. He kisses your forehead, little puffs of laughter warming your scalp. 

“You bring me such joy,” he murmurs against your mouth, as he kisses you, teasing and soft, laughter running through his voice. He starts to lift you out of the chair, realizes he still holds your book, and drops it to the floor. You tug on his hair. 

“Pick that up, husband,” you say calmly, your tone steely. Your husband pulls back, his eyebrows arched high. 

“Your pardon, my queen,” he says, and holding your eyes, finds the book and hands it to you. You glance down at it and back at him. Back at the book. And at him. He inclines his head in curiousity, takes it, opens it, and begins scanning the pages. His windburned cheeks grow ruddier as he flicks through the through them. 

“My lady,” he says reverently, his voice husking low. “These are your studies? Where did you….no, I've seen this style of binding Gondor, please do not tell me exactly where you got this book, _or from whom_ , but….why?” 

“I wish to please you,” you say simply. “And...people we are not mentioning suggested such a book might be informative and helpful in strengthening the bonds of marriage.” 

He looks at a few more pages, tilts his head to look at an illustration, and swallows hard. “Informative. I can see that. But know, wife,” he says, looking at you in grave earnest. “There is no flaw, no...lack in our bed, not to me…” 

“Nor to me, my love,” you hasten to explain, reaching to stroke his cheek. “It’s just... winter can be quite long, and such entertaining learning, any learning, is rarely wasted. I have learned, in fact, just how wise, how perfect it is to have a horse lord for a husband. And that I feel pity for the writer of this work, who surely did not have a partner with such grace.” 

“Is that so,” he rumbles, a teasing, pleased light in his eyes. You smile, and rise to help him remove all the trappings of his office, the stiff formal half-armor he wears. 

“It is so. The Rohirrim know to approach a new horse with soft words and gentle touches, know that a steed of Rohan is as much a partner as a mount, and learn to listen, to understand silent, or not so silent entreaty. They are in command, to be sure, but the finest of them, my lord, my king, know that a partnership grows out of love, not power. And so you have wooed and won a wife.” 

He laughs, low and intimate. “And so I won a wife by treating her as my horse?” 

“Not exactly like, husband,” you murmur, drawing him to your bed. “Like a treasured partner. But at a touch from you, I know when we are to walk, canter or gallop, and my blood sings to follow your will.” 

“And your will, my love?” He asks, stopping you to gather you in his arms and kiss you. “Do we not follow yours? Have you not won me in return with tenderness of your lovemaking and your glorious response to my touch entwined? I cannot think of kissing you, of touching you, without wondering which touch will set you alight. And I truly savor,” he adds, pausing to kiss you deeply then murmur against your lips. "Each time, that moment you catch fire." 

“That brings me joy, my love, to know that.” 

“Then I have not done enough to show you how I revel in your love, my queen,” he growls. “How deeply you move me. You should know it in your very bones.” His mouth descends on yours, hot and slick and demanding, and you melt against him, swept up by his desire. 

Éomer lifts you, and you wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you the rest of the way to bed. He sits with you astride his lap, your body pressed close enough to his that you feel his sex rub against your most sensitive place, and you moan against his mouth, moving against him. 

“Shhh, shh, little one, shhh” he murmurs, stroking your arms, your hair. He breaks the kiss to touch you, run his hands over your waist, your hips, and and then gently brush your breasts through the thin linen of your nightdress with his thumbs. You arch slowly, silently asking for more.

“I think,” he says thoughtfully, cupping one breast in his big, warm hand and pulling you close to whisper in your ear, a hand at the small of your back. “That for your patience and your studies, you should be lavished with attention.” He draws his nose and lips up the column of your neck, presses a kiss just under your ear, then bites the lobe gently. You arch again, a soft sound escaping your lips, pressing your breast into his hand, and he gently caresses it, slow, soft, not enough. 

“You should be tended to like the glorious wife you are, precious and clever.” His voice drops into a low, dark tone that makes you shiver as he finds all those lovely little spots on your throat to nuzzle and kiss, shifting beneath you just enough to wind you tight with anticipation.

“You are the breathtaking rise of your white city above the sea. You are the blue flowers that bloom on the hills of Rohan, stubbornly holding to the soil, beautiful and fierce. You are a silver, shining blade, strong and sure. You are a swift gallop through golden grass on a bright blue day; joyful, exhilarating.” He arches you over his arm to suckle your breast through your gown. “You are the most glorious feast,” he whispers. The joyous music, the heady wine, the most savory of delights.” 

“Éomer,” you cry, struggling in his lap, caught between his words, his hot mouth, and the swell of his sex, ready for you. There are far too many clothes in the way, and you arch again, moving against him, his mouth on your breast demanding response, which your body gives without thought. 

“Does my lady queen wish to ride?” he chuckles, his breath catching as you clutch at his arms and move with purpose. 

“Your lady queen,” you gasp. “Wishes for her lord king and husband’s skin against hers. Otherwise, my love, lead where you will.” 

He leans his forehead against your breast, hands tight on your waist, and whispers your name. “You do me honor, wife,” he murmurs, and slides his hands up your thighs, bunching your gown in his hands. You thread your arms around his neck, hazy-eyed and glowing, and at his sign, lift up slightly for him to draw it past your hips, then raise your arms. A moment, and it is gone, your hair floating around your shoulders, and he traces a lock as it curls around your breast, then looks at you with hot, loving eyes, his hands gentle on your skin. 

“My beauty, shining and strong...and soft.” He traces the lower curve of your breast, then uses that lock of hair to tease along the same path. You whimper, trembling, wanting more, and that teasing brush of hair flicks over your nipple. It is not enough, but so sweet. Your hips move in tiny pulses as you wait for him, though you said he could lead, asked for it, it is so much harder than you anticipated. 

That gentle, teasing brush ends and he circles a slow, careful finger around sensitive flesh, so slow. You grit your teeth, whining, quivering under his touch. His gentle exploration discovers that touching here makes you sigh, but there causes you to tremble, and slightly harder, for you to shudder, for you to pant in pleasure, and if he remains there, just there, brushing that fingertip-width place just under your nipple, you begin to come undone, crying out for him, pleasure so lovely you hardly want to move, but you must, and you clutch at him as the pleasure rises, gasping in wonder - you love when he touches here, suckles here, but had no idea that he could, with just a finger, a finger _tip_ …..

“Éomer, _please_.”

“You can do this, my love, I know you can.” 

You hit his shoulders, straining, and rock against him. He puts one large hand on your hip and holds tight, stilling you. 

“I can’t,” you whimper. He brushes more firmly, never letting up on that one, exquisite place. The pleasure builds until you can barely make a sound, just short whining pants.

“Nearly there,” he whispers, his own breath ragged. “Come love, run. Run for me.” You hear the ardor and wonder in his tone and that, and that….you arch, pressing tight against him. 

Éomer bites back a groan, never letting up and it’s his voice, pleasure-soaked and longing, that spurs you to your peak, white light flashing behind your eyes. He shifts you quick and sure to suckle at your breast, hot and sweet-sharp, and you scream for him, shaking, lost, trusting him to keep you steady and safe. 

You are still shaking when he gathers you to him, to stroke your hair and make soft sounds of comfort and approval. 

“Éomer!” you quaver, your breath hitching, eyes stinging, your hands fisted in his shirt. “Éomer. That. _What?_ ” 

“Glorious, beautiful one,” he murmurs, kissing your hair, your temple, the edge of your cheek, his hands tender and slow on your back. "You humble me, my wife, with your trust. So beautiful. You did so well. So well." You still tremble and hitch. He leans back and looks into your face, concerned. 

“ _Is_ it well with you, my love?” 

_“Éomer!”_ you cry, incredulous, and bring his mouth to yours, all you can think of to show him, to tell him. You grab at his shirt, tugging at it, and he leans back to help you fight it off him. 

“How?” you ask, hands spread across his chest, his arms, his shoulders, greedy, reaching to get his mouth on yours again. “That…” 

“The book. A short passage,” he breathes against your mouth. You hear the shrug, the offhand, modest shrug and begin to laugh. 

“My lord, my love,” you chuckle, trying to kiss him through your laughter. “I yield the day to your greater knowledge and swift study." 

Your husband laughs as well, rolling you onto the soft furs that cover your bed. He props himself on his arms and grins down at you, his hair burning gold in the firelight. 

“And will you yield the night as well, sweet wife?” he murmurs, his eyes filled with joy. 

“All I have is yours, husband,” you reply and reach for him. “Though I do suggest taking off your pants.”

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I have a thing for chair-leaning this week, and seductive bastards. Though actually, I think Éomer is pretty much a darling. Remember his face when Eowyn was injured and Aragorn [ His face. His dear face, all that love and grief and worry, so clear. I think he loves just as openly, in, you know, a totally dignified and manly Rohan way. But his eyes would be so joyful and I'm pretty sure his smile, when he truly smiles, would be knee-weakening. He only had his sister, his uncle and his cousin. Only his sister remains, but part of the year (I think) lives in Gondor, after he returns home from rebuildng. I think he'd be very serious about being just as good a husband as he was a nephew and brother. Also, I have a feeling that Aragorn and Arwen started a rash of happy marriages amongst their friends. :) /headcanon.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xunYbyDr0_w)


End file.
